This is very much my blog, so don't be surprised if this doesn't follow accepted patterns and norms. It is a place where I can be honest and I appreciate that. Here, I splurge. No one comes out looking good. It is a selfish place written by a pretty selfish person. It is a place of ranting and I am, ultimately, an unreliable narrator. Bear that in mind. I attempt to be honest, but things are very much from my point of view.
Highly subjective views of people in my life proliferate. It will deal with many things and new readers would do well to check out the "Story So Far" Page above. I can also heartily recommend that Dysphoria link if you're questioning or interested. Thank you!
Not the most recent salad experiment, but it does rather set the tone of the pre-prepared salads I made back on...
Monday?🤔
The meeting is soon. Where I learn my fate. I do not expect a reprieve like last time. But... well, it's not hit as hard as the last few times either. I keep slipping a little into despondency and struggling to get up in a morning or keep going in the later evening. I keep forgetting to leave the house, but I do manage some walking and such. I am struggling to interact with people, but Abbi was over yesterday and that was nice. Strangely enough my repetitious situation was less spoken about than was other matters weighing on my mind in other areas of my life.
I did find out that I predicted exactly this situation back in 2023 in this post. Lynn asked, back then, "knowing the pattern, can it be avoided?" Apparently not.
So, what next?
Lots of people suggest that I am 'better' than a bus driver, meaning I am talented enough to get a job that more fits my skillset than that of a bus driver. More regular hours, for example, office-based. But... in all honesty, since February, my weather eye on the local job market has suggested that... no, there aren't the jobs for people like me. Or I am looking in the wrong places. And, well, what exactly is there for people like me? I am trained in History and Politics and teaching. The latter of which is forever closed off to me given the unpleasantness. And what, if anything, does that leave? I don't know.
It has also been pointed out that bus companies are constantly looking for drivers so I could end up working in either of the larger urban conurbations near where I live for a different companies. Worse shifts, slightly worse pay, worse hours. But... well, if needs must. I am reasonably solvent for a change and can afford to take a week or two to review things before applying myself to applying for work. And maybe I am in need of a break.
I've said a few times that there aren't enough bears on here.
My current life, the fact I have attention, is good. But I cannot imagine the me of before Christmas ever being pulled up at work for what I am being pulled up for. I had no contact. I had no real communication. Abbi is not a user of the phone, Gary and Tim are the sort of people to send a message and then wait for months to respond. E-mails rather than constant contact. And that's it. Like always, I have allowed myself to be wooed, to be seduced, by contact and attention. Because I crave it, it appears, and it has done me in. No, that's unfair. I have done me in. I have taken decisions that mean I shall be out of work again soon. Like always. I lay the landmines that take me out and even mark them, but I lay them all the same and then blunder right into them anyway. That may be part of my skillset actually.
It does rather mean that I shan't be kidnapping Little Sis any time soon. She needs security and stability and, well, I don't have that at the moment. Bad plan. And... that may be the most damning indictment I have of what is occurring. My Mum asked if I had been praying, I have. She asked what Him Upstairs had said. I pointed out that the few impressions I have of that are of Him tapping his watch when I finally accepted I was trans and asking what took me so long, and a sort of benevolent silence when chatting about Sis and Mummy. My point being - whatever the plan is, it doesn't seem to be much of a priority to keep me posted about jobs. OR, and I'm spitballing here, the plan keeps giving me jobs and I keep messing it up.
One thing I will say is this: had I been working full time then the contract I kept in marking would be the right one to have kept and just enough to fill the gaps. I chose reasonably well. It's a shame I didn't keep more given how things shook out but I can't complain, too much. It's just weird working at a normal pace for a change and actually having so much time where I can't fill it with marking because there simply isn't the work there to fill it with. Still, if my prediction is correct and I'm out of work after the meeting it does mean a much easier weekend for the Event that I've already bought tickets for and less urgency about getting home afterward, so likely cheaper too as I may be able to avoid a taxi. Could be expensive on the buses, but we'll see. Will still be a damn' sight cheaper than a taxi. Point is, it'll be okay. Work and application worries can wait for a little bit. One advantage of all the attention, I guess, is feeling as though I belong.
Now, that's no disrespect to Gary and Tim, but I know there's a limit to what I can ask from them.
Family portrait made by a talented Little Sister on Sims 4.
I might be enamoured by it.
See, unknown to me, my estimations of the activity of others was way off. Turns out my careful timing was for naught. Little Sis had been in action. I was thus confused by an offer of a phone call on Monday. I planned accordingly, and took an age in the shower because it was for the afternoon, when Abbi would be over. I checked with her and took my time. Plans changed whilst I showered, of course, and I rushed to join a call. I was utterly at sea, I'm not good with conversation I haven't prepared for. Never have been. But it sorta kinda worked and, as is now customary, I stayed on with Little Sis. Went to meet Abbi, took her with me, and we came back to mine.
I got a bit over-excited, I'll be honest, and ended up just dominating the whole thing. Throwing stuff at Abbi to read, forgetting basic manners (hello, would you like to eat? What about a drink? I can listen to what you want to say, obviously), and just firing madly around. My demons weren't fully under control. Abbi and Little Sis, now working together, managed to force the issue. Upshot? Another rug-pull. Abbi and Mummy met and chatted. Abbi supported some pushing from Little Sis. I... I got gotted.
My book on how to be invisible (youtake a pinch of keyhole) failed me. I was seen. I was skewered (fold yourself up). And I was forced to actually stop deflecting (you cut along the dotted lines). But it did mean that I ended up ignoring Abbi in the tumult, and tumult it was. For me, internally (youthink inside out).
Jump round three times, jump into the mirror: and you're invisible.
It's not over.
Line break follows. Bail out now. Pull up, Maverick!
I usually do a Christmas review. I haven't yet. So, here's that review, I guess.
On 23rd December, the night thereof, my leaks returned with a vengence. It wasn't raining terribly hard or for very long, but my ceiling was soaking wet. I investigated, it was now close to midnight, and discovered that the leak that "shouldn't be there" according to my roofers was, in fact, very much there and much worse than before they had managed to visit. I am still awaiting their proper response (they keep telling me they're on holiday - they briefly promised they'd turn up before New Year, but I doubt that). Slightly stressed, I managed to get some sleep.
Christmas Eve I spent the morning bowling with the boys and Tilly. Middlest finally managed to come into his own, where his technique was supported by a bit of power and 'oomph' and he won the second game handily. I managed to win the first by accident (I wasn't trying to win, but nor did I throw it). The second game I did manage not to take from Middlest's triumph (though Tilly almost won instead). Youngest has stopped using the ramp and so he was just getting better without being able to see his improvement himself. He wanted me to stop over for Christmas, trying to tell him why this was impossible was hard. Tilly, who won't lie to her children (sorry, bit sore about a conversation I have not related here), has not told Youngest why I can't stay over, just that I can't. I am not allowed to share the reason either. Right. That's not lying even by omission, apparently, so it's fine.
Then I returned home and fretted about the leaks. However, it was reasonably dry. I found some games online and got hooked on them, as is my wont. Thus I wasted the rest of the day.
Christmas day arrived. I unwrapped my one last present from my Mum, a couple of boxes of smellies for the bathroom that was a regift - she gets that sort of thing from friends and it's not her cup of tea, so said last year she would start passing them on. My presents from Alex and Abbi, they came to visit on the 21st, were already open. The Snuggle (I have no idea what it actually is, but as a cute and soft toy I shall refer to it as The Snuggle) was already thus ensconsed with Callie and Ruff; the plant in the dining room and the chocolates were eaten.
Boxing Day Middlest came over in the afternoon and did some painting. I even managed to have a shower that morning. It wasn't that cold, the house was behaving, the buidling work was actually reasonably liveable with. Still is. Needs plastering, obviously, but the problem is solved and I can see the corner visibly drying out now!
Obviously, that night, there was more rain. I took some towels up and wrapped my rafters in a mostly successful attempt to intercept the leaks better than relying on pots and plastic bags. The water is running down the wood, you see, rather than dripping straight in. Harder to stop and harder to catch before it gets to ceilings. This was exacerbated at some point over the next few days as I was at work and now I am out of towels as they are all on rotation attempting to staunch leaks - oh, the one at the chimney has returned as well, worse than it was back in 2021. Same place, of course.
I love spending almost 20 grand and getting nothing fixed in return. I am, of course, feeling dour - hence why I have not posted this earlier. I was looking forward to Thursday too, a chance to discuss some matters on my mind since last post with someone in the flesh so to speak - as well as developments - but that was scotched (with good reason!) and I spent the morning in a big urban connurbation instead stocking up on foundation (it's running out again). I also stopped off in Accessorize and got myself an actual purse. It's orange. It's obnoxious orange. Well, I like it. I tried, and failed, to arrange a visit to see Five and pass on a Christmas present. I suspect I should probably cease my own strivings there now. Suffice to say some people on the buses have said some nice things and that is mostly keeping me going. I shall, because I am me, go into more detail presently but that's TMI and thus lives below the line break. You can stop here now.
Bullets are the beauty in a blistering sky, bullets are the beauty and I don't know why.
Eldest doesn't want to rebuild things with me. Nor me to try with her.
The potential teaching gig fell at the wording of the dismissal from my last place, like I originally feared.
IKEA application rejected a second time.
Leak remains, as far as I know, unrepaired. I shan't know until it rains.
First acknowledgement of anything I've done at work for a week is a moan about how little I am doing.
Chances high of having no work soon. But I've put in another full month, so I shall get some income.
It's not the sadness, but the hope. Hope will kill you in the end.
Sometimes one discovers that one is not painting things black so much as using black because that's what it looks like and that's what it is. £23 on shopping, £4 on heating the house for an hour plus making some food. It's as well the teaching fell through, I lack the funds to travel nor update my cosplay wardrobe enough to be a full teacher out of context. Bus driving remains, I suppose, we shall see. There is no luck but what luck one makes for one's self. I think it's safe to say I have made some pretty awful situations for myself this last year. Many worse than I realised at the time, the rest as bad as I feared. I'm one of the lucky ones though - I am not yet homeless. Just... I have lost my identity as a teacher, lost my family life, lost a partner, lost a daughter (who still lives but would prefer I did not), lost at least one job (maybe two soon) and any kind of security. Was it worth it?
Not sure I can answer the same way as Tennant. I heard this first in 1991 on Discography and remember how it made me feel back then, it was Christmas. The tape it was on would chew up and die on Boxing Day. A second was sought and died within hours. The third I dared not play for fear of losing it, so I recorded it on another tape - which died when played. Then nothing until I picked it up on CD some time in the early 2000s. This was the song it died on each and every time on tape. A hint perhaps?
Personal responsibility / Personal response insanity
I had assumed that I was ready, at long last, but I was wrong. Apparently I am not. I'd gone with Abbi on a mission, and the day was lovely and excellent and lovely in spite of that mission and it's failure. Since then I have been online to try and scratch that damn' itch and find what it was that I was looking for - but to no avail.
Work has been joined, and things have... happened. Examining paid me one last time, which was lovely too, and plugs a bit of a hole but only in the short term. Friends are struggling with real issues - where they may be trapped in a house of less value than they had supposed - and that sucks and causes them anxiety, as one would expect. Five has moved house and been in touch - ...
Interruption, I've fucked up at work. Again. This time might be impossible to bounce back from. If I am sacked tomorrow, I shan't be surprised. Annoyed and upset: sure, but not surprised.
And that's the entry. Smallest over tomorrow, of course, whenever I am most stressed and worried is when I see my children. Fuck.
I'm never far from a spiral - physically or temporally - and I'm back there agin. I think I might be broken. No, I know I'm broken. I very well might be beyond fixing though. Missed my chance to meet that truck and get an in-service payout. The law of diminishing returns. At some point taking matters into my own hands will become just as financially viable as the alternative. Just a matter of time.
Crouching cupboard, hidden shop-girl selfie - third day of work, I think? Not one of my better shots, to be sure, but I look happy.
Deep in the examination mines the air is close and the light small - it is dark and oppressive. Record-breaking climate-anxiety-inducing temperatures did not help. Having a new job inamongst my usual exam stresses was at once helpful - somewhere to go and get out of the house, a mental break from examining, people to talk to, friends to make - but also stressful - I make more in thirty minutes' worth of marking than I do in three hours' worth of work. Yesterday, for example, I earned more in bonus (extra paid for marking a certain number of scripts a day) than I do in a week at work now. These bonuses were always nice, always enticing, but in my old life they never equated to quite that grand a scale - my job, my pay, was always enough to take care of most bills.
Nevertheless, I was happy. Genuinely. I enjoy marking. I enjoy my new job as a shop-girl. Because, well, look at the damn' title! There's a 70-30 split of customers referring to me as 'female' versus 'male', with most of the 30% being males themselves (interesting) but I'll take the affirmation of the 70% and run with it. 100% of my colleagues, who only know me as Joanna. Several regular customers (also in the 30% interestingly) have praised me to others whom they know as a 'keeper' and a positive to their experience. All in my hearing, but only one knowingly so. It's nice, I like that. I've had some screw-ups but I've mostly weathered those without too much dark soul-searching (I take things way too seriously, it's part of- wait, do you even read this blog?).
I really need to tidy my bedroom...
Wednesday was a day off. I decided that I would go for a walk to IKEA, first time in ages, and just enjoy my morning before embarking on another round of marking. The heat of Monday and Tuesday was mostly past, I seemed to be coming down with a cold, and, well, I felt like some 'me time'. I did my usual conversation with Him Upstairs as I walked, it's a feature, and I was thanking Him because, for once, financially - well, I looked like I might actually come out ahead if I got a job that paid the bills before December. I never made it to IKEA. Not long after that I got a phonecall from a courier, they had a letter from my old place - I knew what this was. I ran home, literally ran, and was not wrong. I have been summarily dismissed. My Union had failed me. I had not had anything to sign, for some reason they had delayed, and the school had acted accordingly. I rang, my friend in HR was sympathetic, of course they would sort it. It took a while to get hold of my Union. Later in the day, unable to check in with my Union, I called my friend again - the school were firm, they were sorry for my issues with my Union, but that sounded like a me problem. Eventually the Union forwarded me a form to print out to apply for hardship funding in the meantime, protesting that they had done what they usually do and were perplexed as to the school's actions. Last update, yesterday, was that they were investigating any legal avenues.
This means I do not have the financial cushion I thought I had. More generally, I now, legally, must disclose to any new employment that I was dismissed from my last job and give the reason: gross misconduct. No one will listen after those two words. A job that pays the bills is now... well, probably out. I will not likely end up ahead. I may not even break even.
Losing my job was one nightmare. Losing access to my Youngest another. They both came hard on the heels of losing my marriage, losing a couple of teeth to crumbling, losing my savings to a leak in the loft that still isn't properly fixed and leaks in the bathroom that are bodged for now. My Eldest has said that she doesn't want to stay over again. Her choice, can't say I'm happy, but I shall support her as best as I can. She wants to go to Pride, I can't take her - my job. It doesn't pay well, but £36 is better than no money and visiting Pride.
I thought that I had run out of nightmares. But I also know that there is nothing bad that I cannot make worse through my own ineptitude. My Dad's wife had recommended I tell school that I would sign the agreement back before their deadline as my Union were being strange. I did not. Had I been quicker in taking Smallest home I wouldn't be denied access without supervision (he's been much better since not coming over, Tilly informs me, much happier and less angry). Had I waited until this summer to transition I may still have a job (they were willing to deal with things quickly and mostly positively until I changed my name officially with work - I did say that would force their hand one way or another). Had I not got a diagnosis for autism I may still have a marriage. Had I been able to control my urges to cross-dress I may still have a relationship. Had I been able to better deal with my stresses of new children I may still have a loving relationship. Had I been able to better deal with my stress I may still be working at the place I was when I started all this, I may have paid off more of my mortgage, not lost £30k+ on my first house.
There is nothing I cannot make worse by my own actions.
I have a rip-snorting cold, I am not sleeping well, and there is more marking to do.
0800 - a case in points: I told Tilly about my cold. I am not now seeing any of my children this weekend as a consequence - can't risk it being COVID this close to Eldest's dance intensive. Cutting my nails I ended up slipping three times, now I have painful fingers and worrying buried sharp points. Taking a shower meant I missed the opportunity to take on some extra hours at work as well. There is nothing I cannot make worse by my own actions.
ADDENDUM - Bought in some tests, at least it's not COVID.
When I am happy, I miss things. When I am happy, I take my eye off the ball, I make mistakes, things build and I don't notice. When I am happy is when I am most in danger. And I forget this every time I am happy. Or, rather, I never notice from what direction the danger comes.
So it has been. In April I realised that I could be happy with who I was and, by June, it had become a 'thing'. And I was. I was happy. Despite a few minor wobbles, I was happy by the time summer rolled around and nothing too awful had happened. Maybe, I thought, that curse was broken. Then summer. I was happy, a few minor wobbles that made me worry about dangers and made me think that, maybe, I had found them in advance and even weathered them. Work started back, things seemed better than I dared hope, and even my results were generally okay. Warily, I began to believe that maybe, just maybe, I was being happy and the issues were only in my head. Each wobble, each fear, turned out to be a perception, my perception. There was a warning, as it happens, in November - but I truly thought I had got past it, through it, safely.
This wasn't far off from the recent complaints as it happens. Look, no idea what is coming. But, of course, evidence of the link betwixt happiness and the eventual demise.
No happy moment goes unpunished in my life. Better in this life than the next.
Christmas. Wild happiness, the likes of which I have never really known. A feeling of belonging, or self, of contentment and joy. This was happiness of the kind I had not known since I was a child. I had friends, I had family, I had... seemingly, I had everything. And I took my eye off the ball, I lost track of the game, I stopped being careful. I focussed, instead, on a different game, a different ball. It consumed me, because I dared to believe that I could do things that I had never done in pursuit of my own happiness and my own self. Sure, there were the leaks at home, but I thought that was the size of it: me and houses have never got on. It was stressful, it was hard to focus, but the happiness of the potential transition at work outweighed everything. I had the support of my friends, my colleagues, and, I thought, the students. It was, truly, thought I, the best things had ever been.
Thursday 10 February. The cold fingers of dread reached out and grabbed my happiness, carefully caressing it with slimy trails and a tightening grip around its throat. The following day I plunged into the swamp itself, thinking this was the lowest I could go. Support was freely offered and, over time, I weathered the storm. My happiness and the issue were not connected, they couldn't be - my finding of myself was not connected to what was happening. And, you know, I began to believe that. Over the half term, still worried, I thought that I would continue in the project of nurturing my happiness. I thought I could do that still and not worry too much about that which I could not control. "Who of you, by worrying, can add but one hour to your lives?"
Turn me on, take me for a hard ride Burn me out, leave me on the other side I yell and tell it that it's not my friend I tear it down, I tear it down And then it's born again
The evidence arrived. I read it with mounting horror and panic. The misrepresentations, the twisting of situations, the level of depth. I spoke to my Union Rep, briefly, who was busy and harried but comforting. I spoke to friends. I spoke to family. And, today, someone took over one of my subjects. I do not have to keep that in my planning any more, I was told when I asked if I no longer had to set cover. My Union Rep was in touch. She was of the opinion that there was no reasonable defence that could be offered, at best, she said, I could explain and then apologise. Would the Head want to keep me on? She asked. I had no answer. Ah, then probably best to seek a settlement agreement. The procedure not being followed was an irrelevance in the process, it may come up in a settlement agreement, it may not - but it was not relevant. Even if things had been twisted, I had made a number of students uncomfortable and, honestly, that was the main issue. And, including what I had said I had said, then no, she couldn't judge, but nor could she predict the outcome. At least a final warning. At least. And she agreed that the students who had complained would likely complain again. They had been keeping a list, after all, it is likely they had more. So, she agreed that I would likely be dismissed in the future. Better to go before anything was officially proven as the nature of the complaints would make it impossible to find work again afterward.
Our Father, you are in Heaven, Holy is Your name. Your Will, not mine, be done. On Earth as it is in Heaven. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Yours is the Kingdom. Now, and for ever more. Not my will, but Yours. Let me be part of the Plan, not against it. Amen.
And it is because I was happy, focussed on the wrong thing, tending to myself rather than being my usual semi-paranoid and careful self. I was happy rather than beaten down, open rather than careful, upbeat rather than dour and living like a social eunuch. I had lost that structure, that cage, that shell that allowed me to function. In its place there was a wildness, a twinkle, a loss of control. Without pressure I spilled out in all directions, covering everything in the ichor of the blackness that has been at the centre of me for as long as I could remember.
On Wednesday I had prayed. Not my will, but Yours. My standard prayer. But heartfelt. On Thursday, after the evidence and in the afternoon, I prayed more, the same prayer. Harder. Is this conversation with my Union Rep the sign?
I have been silly, said my Mum on the phone, but it's not a sackable offence, surely!? They have not seen the evidence. Well, said my Father, you now need to rebuild. He had, when he left, he lost his job in a reshuffle, had to get one over 300 miles away, for a promotion, mind. Five years, then another, higher paid job. Then another, higher paid, then another, higher paid. None had ever paid as low as what I currently get, by the way, and that's without adjusting for inflation.
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command Tell that its sculptor well those passions read.
Looking at what I have already achieved, look upon my works ye mighty and despair, it... is not edifying. I have one (1) failed marriage, one (1) failed career - in that I have stalled out and been moved sideways on the greasy pole, I am not one of life's climbers. Three (3) failed relationships in total in my life. I do not work as hard or as successfully as my brother - who has a family that loves him, doing work he loves, for pay that allows him to work far less hours than I ever have even though he is paid less, because his wife also works. I have failed in every metric that my Father used to explain his own successes all that time ago, but still so very recently. I have bought two (2) houses with hidden defects, three (3) if you count matrimonial home, but we had worked hard and well to fix the majority of those before I left. The roof, of course, remains. But this house, the one in which I now live? It has burned through all of my savings, two loans from my parents and continues to cause issues. I cannot afford to do it up to sell, and it will not fetch what I paid for it as the cost of living increases and my repairs, at best, patch things up. I have had to empty the pots in the loft three times today. It's raining again.
Here he is. This is the shell that got me as far as I came.
But less bearded in this image.
I see myself in the mirror. But was it worth the cost?
What price a beard?
The children are not over. I am worried, in no fit state to look after them. Last night I told my Eldest about some of the issues, reassured her that even in the worst case scenario she would be well. Tilly was angry at that, the Eldest is very Anxious, and this sort of thing was not necessary. Tilly is not wrong. She is, in fact, right. It's one more mistake entered into the pantheon, one more entry on the ledger, one more stone on the day of reckoning. Because we all face the final judgement - whatever you believe, there is such a thing, it just differs how one sees it. For some it is on the faces of loved ones as they visit before you pass away, others it is their legacy, still others the deeds they do in life or the lives of their children. Me? I am selfish. I shall stand, or more likely kneel, before my God.
On the final day I shall find them lukewarm, and spit them out. They will say, did we not call to You and speak Your name? And I shall say: I did not know you.
Better in this life than the next. I missed my chance to die in service, I guess. Oh, sure, I have already looked at other jobs available. And, no doubt, I shall apply. But there will be a pay cut to take them, some £300pcm. Honestly, I'll take that. I can maybe soak that loss. Maybe. It'll be hard, but I can do it. Mum said maybe I could start as Joanna at a new place, but... maybe not. Throughout my life happiness has meant I take my eye off the ball, I focus on the wrong things, and I am punished for that. The lifting of the weight, the seeing in colour for the first time: these were warning signs. No one deserves anything, I've said that before and often, and that means no one deserves happiness. And, with great happiness, for me, comes great mistake. Or mistakes. In this case, my happiness may end my career, not just my job, and will certainly involve a lot of supplication - in this life and the next - because I forgot myself. Susie said that, as a slow study, it took her a long time to realise that self-denial led to just more pain. Maybe, for normal people, that is true. For me: self-denial got me a wife, children, a decent job, a decent house. Self-actualisation got me an ASD diagnosis, a divorce, a sub-standard house and, now, maybe unemployment. Better in this life than the next.
EDIT - I had a phone conversation with my Father's wife last night. She agrees that I should fight for my job but also that I am in the wrong. She doesn't even know half the allegations, only the ones I have shared, and she thinks I am likely to end up dismissed. However, she does believe I should fight for my job and maybe, just maybe, I can get a Final Warning. This will give me time to seek alternative employment, maybe not as a teacher. She has researched autism and believes that it is perhaps not best suited to teaching. She also inquired after what had made me so happy lately. I told her. Oh, she said, I have known people who undertook operations to be a different sex and I have never had that impression about you. She's stuck her neck out for such people in the past, you see, at significant personal cost in her work life - they had period pains they felt so female, she does not see how I could feel female nor how that could be a thing in my life.
I missed my chance to have that accident, I guess, or I will have missed it by Thursday at any rate. I've always hated the premise of It's a Wonderful Life because if you were to create a world in which I wasn't born the main differences to the people I love would be positive. It's hard to read, or to paint, or even eat at the moment - it all seems terribly self-indulgent given the circumstances. And self-indulgence is what has brought me here. "Learn from your mistakes," they say, but I never have. Or, rather, I cannot connect past mistakes to current behaviour in any way that diminishes future mistakes.
God, I don't want to quit, I would much rather a settlement agreement were reached. Because I'm not entirely certain I can face Thursday at the moment. Alan Turing may not have committed suicide in the end, it could have been entirely accidental that he ingested cyanide from an experiment to plate a spoon with gold the previous evening to his death - only the bias of the coroner allowed it to fit a narrative of a troubled gay man taking his life "whilst the balance of his mind was disturbed." - /EDIT
Oh hey there, Regret, been a while since I've seen you. How's the wife? Oh, no, of course, you, uh, haven't got one have you. Children? Oh, yeah, well, I guess that's... Hrm. I mean... yeah, no, sorry, didn't mean to interrupt. No, really, I wasn't on my way somewhere else, no, you... yeah, no, you go right ahead, buddy...
Just... feeling down. There was a noise last night that woke me, turned out I had a leak in the loft. It seems to have dried up for now and I've laid down a couple of towels with a jug where the drips seemed to be coming from, but, honestly, I'm mostly just stressed about it. I've sent a message to a roofer I trust and just hope it's not too expensive to sort. This house of horrors may end me.
Oh, and this morning, my grouting job failed. So my having a shower ended up with a leak in the kitchen as the water ran down the back of the tiles again. I know I can't afford to get that fixed at the moment so that's nice. And the cold water pipe is now dripping because of course it is. And that's stressing me out a bit too.
As is heating the place. Poor insulation and whatnot, means that I can't seem to get the temperature to 15 degrees easily at all. So I'm cold at the moment. Wrapping up warm, sure, but hardly a place I want to invite my children as the weather draws in.
At work, I wasn't covered for two days (without me realising) so my Form went to seed and the classes I do teach have done the bare minimum despite me doing live lessons from home and offering help via e-mail. I did some marking today of some work handed in before I went off and it is dire. I am struggling to see what positive difference I am making.
I'm feeling very alone, very isolated and very stressed.
Like, maybe if I'd put half as much energy into my marriage as I did on... everything else, I'd still be married. Maybe if I'd stayed in the flat rather than being so desperate to move I'd at least be in a place that was warm and dry where I had to clean the bathroom of mould once a month rather than a house that is falling apart and costing me £7k and counting over the asking price. Maybe if I wasn't so full of shit and piss I could have coped being bloody normal and cis. And maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have contracted COVID and be sitting stressing about leaks in a bed, shivering in the cold and feeling sad because I'm alone and stressed because I am being utterly unproductive.
I am lucky, I said, because I don't have to worry as many like me do.
It was only this last weekend that I was thanking God: as I walked home to get my credit card having left it there, I thanked God, honestly, for the opportunity He had given to live as me. I thought: you know what, I am actually lucky. I finally know who I am and there is a strong possibility that I shall get to be myself. How many people can claim that, huh?
I should have known. The first comparable occasion of thanks was for the fact that my parents were together and happy, how many people were unable to live with that comfort? Turns out me, a month later. The second was with Terry, at University, not long before I decided it wasn't going to last (followed by six months of horrible knowledge) I thanked God I had a relationship at last. Then it was being with Toby - I thanked God that I had found someone who understood me, tolerated cross-dressing and who loved me. Right before the alcohol poisoning incident that led to me ending it, then re-starting it but with everything already dead. I thanked God the night I met Tilly, that I hadn't fucked it up, as my car exploded. I thanked God for His help, just after Tilly found out she wasn't pregnant because we weren't ready to be parents - then she was and then the eldest was born before we were married. I should know better by now.
Today I told my place of work's HR director, as a friend not an employee, about me. That is, that I am trans. Why? I don't know. They are a friend. Sorta. They were supportive, sympathetic, said they would research what is the 'done thing' in these circumstances but mainly responded as a friend, which was positive.
History of the Entire world, I guess.
I woke, this morning, with a series of bad dreams. The bit I can remember was there was some kind of party / organised street do about the Tamil Kings. This, apparently, involved someone cosplaying as Jack Sparrow - because of course he was a Tamil King. I had organised it and so was unable to spare the time to actually spend with my family, who were attending, as I was constantly trying to balance other people to ensure the event worked and didn't fall apart. Tilly was there, the denouement that woke me was that she was utterly indifferent to me and the stress of running the event.
See those dark patches? They were a literal pool of water when I opened this up, I managed to get that soaked up but...
In the kitchen, there was water. Quite a lot. The leak was back. But I hadn't had a shower recently. The bathroom looked like I had though, which was concerning. Heavy rain and some bowing in the ceiling - not like a leak, but damp. Oh. This evening it was still dripping - there is a failure in the plug of the shower unit, water is continually dripping through (the shower drips, so there is a constant supply of water to the plug). I managed to pull back the boards to investigate and lay a rolled up towel to try and save the ceiling / floor. It meant that I haven't really spent time with the Middlest who is over tonight as I have been investigating that and not crying. New damp patches on the living room walls, now down on the wall with the front room (where the damp-proofing was recently done) and high on the wall to next-door. The damp patches on the outer wall are noticeably larger now, and there are some new ones. Oh. There's some new damp in the corner of my bedroom too.
On Saturday my biggest worry was that my glasses were too heavy, so I wore these ones instead.
I told Tilly. I knew I would have to sooner or later, wanted to make sure it was before I told the children. And I have a GP appointment booked for Monday about it. "We would never have worked then," she said, "But good for you on your journey. Oh, wait, did you know whilst we were together?" Her face darkened. I told her what I'd always said: I kinda suspected what I would find if I went looking, so I didn't look. Which is true. She was otherwise unaffected, reminded me that I didn't need to have told her at all, ever. Reminded me that the only person we knew who had done this, a trans-man, had started out a lesbian and, well, wasn't the nicest person (but remained in the relationship he started in throughout, with adopted children). Reminded me that she was very naive about such things. Reminded me that she had no questions, would never have questions, but thanked me for keeping her in the loop. Then the conversation was over as Middlest had had a meltdown whilst we talked. Hence why we were late to my house and why Middlest was already upset about wasted time before the shower shenanigans.
In desperation about the leaks, the shit-show of my house, I phoned my mother. She had previously advised me against rushing into buying the house. Advised me not to tell people at work about being trans. As usual, I have rushed headlong into everything. And, as usual, I have paid some of the price pretty quickly. The rest is yet to come. As I type, it is raining again, and the guttering at the back of the house is struggling to cope - another point of failure approaches. Wait, do we know who it is that is the cause of so much failure?
At University I was given a cassette by a girl I really liked and who remains a friend even today. She never liked me the same way in return, but dated many of my friends. On one side was the album Ok Computer by Radiohead but it cut off at No Surprises and the other side was Without You I'm Nothing by Placebo but cut off at Burger Queen. A perfect combination for my mood at the time. She once told me that she never knew which me was going to be there when I turned up places, that there were many versions of me. I suspect that this is why she didn't like me the same way I her and may explain the otherwise inexplicable gift of the cassette.
The Future
My favourite from the Saturday.
Now with added 'bob-cut'.
At the park on Saturday there were a group of youths of various ages interacting. It was on the edge of an area of extreme social deprivation, the worst in the county, and there were a few obvious mini-groups that had come together to a place with play equipment - they were there with no supervision (as one would expect) but exhibiting the kinds of behaviours that I recognise from where I used to the live, the sorts of interaction and language that one associates with mild neglect and poor role modelling. That is, fake bravado and insults as endearments with an edge of not understanding social interactions. One of the young girls there had communicated to me and the boys about our curious discussion about a path running off to the side of the field, she was younger than the Boy, older than the smallest, and keen to be nice. "Oh, there's a field there," she began over-hearing us, "and then there's a path out to the pub. I mean, out to the Rose and Crown. You can drink there. I've drunk there."
I ignored the drink part, "Oh, thank you, we'll have to go and look at the field."
"It's a nice field. But I know people go there to have sex. And someone buried a cat there because I saw them doing it. Well, my friend saw them. And they buried a cat. It's in the field."
"Certainly sounds interesting, we'll go and investigate, thank you, that was really helpful of you" and we started to walk away.
"And I've been smoking in that field."
And we left. You get the get the idea. I doubt very much the girl had been drinking or smoking, or that a cat was buried there. Her face was earnest, she wanted to be friendly and helpful but was trying so desperately hard to shock and disgust. And she had no volume control, this was all yelled, in the hopes of perhaps attracting the attention of others.
The actual park, but in March rather than this last weekend, so very much in winter here.
That's the slide though. Oh, also, I guess still in Lockdown.
It was later that day, we were back at the park. The girl had gone, but many of the same group remained. They were bullying one boy on the slide, they had stolen his shoe and were kicking it round. Another group of boys, seemingly with the bullied boy, were clustered round the slide calling him a "gay-boy" and using this with one another because "boys ain't friends wiv boys". One of the boys retrieved the shoe, returned it to the original boy, who punched him and then they sat down together, called one another gay-boys and started a conversation about a Tik-Tok video they'd both watched. One of the erstwhile bullies joined in and was invited to sit with them. He shouted that a girl he'd just been talking with was a "tranny and gay-boy" for ill-defined reasons and then conversation turned to music. Another, older, boy and girl turned up their music but then joined the conversation and...
Get to the point, Joanna.
Okay, so, these were 'youth'. And they were clearly aware of terms like 'gay-boy' and 'tranny'. They were confused about them but they knew them. They ranged in age from Primary School (around ten or so) to GCSE (around sixteen I'd guess). Given the issues they were all clearly facing, from neglect (albeit benign) to possible signifiers of emotional abuse at the hands of trusted adults; from low-level poverty to being below the bread-line, I should not have been surprised at their use of slurs and their behaviour.
And that treacherous part of me inside said: "these people have no need for something as esoteric and alien as trans-rights: surely you ought to realise that the working-class don't care about that extremely first-world issue. Why do you care so much about something that would affect around 0.5% of the population?" It said: "You've lived 40 years already, what difference does another 40, 50, 60 make? And at what point does it become anywhere near as important to deal with as the issues facing these children?" And it added: "these are the future, these youngsters are the real Britain, UK, of the future. And look what they think about trannies and perverts. Homophobia, yes, and that is the future. Oh, and by the way, what an arsehole you are to 'other' them as working class and pass judgement on them at all, get over yourself you cosseted middle-class bougeois oppressive twat."
Politics
Ah, here it is. Not the one I know from beer - they retweeted this.
I'm not usually on Twitter, honest, but this one was sent to my e-mail as a 'highlight' that Twitter thought I might want to see.
Along with one from Mae Dean about getting an appointment to update her driving licence in her name and with her gender.
Opinion pieces are always of interest. And there is a Party Conference going on, a Labour one. Supposedly a progressive party, an MP from it tweeted that she was being attacked for knowing that only women had a cervix. Her Party leader was asked if it was transphobic to say that only women had a cervix and mealy mouthed some politeness that "it should not have been said" and some people I actually know from beer reviews have quote-tweeted this with the commentary "Dear God". An opinion piece about the leader of this supposedly progressive party suggested that they ought to state some policies. In the comments several people claimed to be working class and suggested that what thius progressive party needed to do was "row back on this trans-rights nonsense, talk more about taxation and cut benefits that fund people choosing poverty over work" to much agreement. Even those arguing against welfare cuts simply ignored, or outright agreed, that the "trans-nonsense has to stop as it detracts from the very real problems and issues facing the UK."
The Health Secretary used the question and answer to suggest that the leader of the opposition was ignorant of basic science: only women could even have a cervix and to say otherwise was patently absurd. Much of the progressive media was awash with people being very upset that a female MP had been attacked on Twitter for stating the blindingly obvious and suggesting that the trans-issue had become a little too much of a big thing.
And that treacherous part of me inside said: "they're right, you know. This is how it all begins." And it smiled and said: "you think this is a good time to identify with the losing side? How many good people hid their sexuality, identity and religion - everything that modern culture says ought to be expressed - when they saw what was coming in the 1930s in Fascist Germany? They were later hailed as heroes for that, you know, not those that went and got killed for 'staying true to themselves' - and anyway, there's no genocide being suggested. You've lived for 40 years without making too many waves - it's destroyed your marriage already, is that not enough?" That part of me looked at me as I walked into town this evening to get some things to hang in the loo to clean it and some veg for a meal tomorrow dressed in my butterfly t-shirt and stuffed bra and asked: "is this worth the price you've paid already? No, it isn't. And this is without making any moves."
Vegan Games
Everywhere is sold out of these.
Not that the Japanese version would be all that helpful.
Last night the Boy and I attended Pokemon at my favourite local vegan gaming cafe and I got talking to Veronica again, the trans-woman there, and she went out of her way to make it clear that I could ask her anything and she would do her best to answer. She pointed out that the Boy was perfectly comfortable around her, that he knew she was trans, and so I shouldn't feel bad about coming out to him. She knows my eldest and pointed out that she was likely to be supportive - after all, she was bi and therefore already in the right camp - and she wondered aloud why I might delay at all. She assured me that waiting lists weren't that long, she had got on hormones within seven months of coming out to her GP when she was 18, her breasts were thus all natural, and she had regular meetings and check-ups with the gender clinic. Indeed, she got extra support through therapy because of the ASD diagnosis along with the gender issues so I could likely look forward to the same.
I shared about coming out at work and she asked how long it would be until I socially transitioned at work, that it was a good idea to do so quickly rather than wait. I pointed out that the advice from my Union was to wait until a holidays to give the school chance to change documents and prepare for the potential of a media onslaught. She nodded, this was good advice, so after Christmas then? Luckily, the Pokemon games interrupted. Veronica was nothing but positive and kind, well-meaning, but by the end of the evening I was struggling a bit - information overload? I actually couldn't make out what she, or anyone else, was saying for one extended part of the night - not something with which I usually struggle, and all the noises were melding into one big roar. Not a loud one, but enough to obscure words and meaning. It's been like that on and off at work too.
The other issue to relate here is that I didn't actually have any questions. I mean, I did about getting on hormones but... I didn't know how to ask that question in the way that I would get the answer I needed - that is, how to ask so that people would be able to offer the information I was looking for. The same issue I have noted at the in-person support group - the last meeting was a fun one, to be sure, but apart from memes and sci-fi and novels I'm not certain that I learned anything that I found useful. No, let me rephrase, anything that I want to find out right now.
And that treacherous part of me inside grinned ear to ear: "who do you think you are, anyway? Do you honestly believe that you'll go on hormones? You, who can't contemplate taking a paracetamol for a splitting headache and baulks at the concept, the concept, of taking vitamins to supplement a diet?" I didn't have an evening meal yesterday, and my lunches are back to being rushed and not well-balanced to try and save my tooth - whose temporary filling failed completely on Monday night and whose new temporary filling, though holding, is much less expertly applied. "It's been 40 years, you've been teaching long enough that your career can vote and go to University, is losing the beard not enough? How do you think you'll manage if you try play-acting as a woman? Do you really expect that students will call you 'Miss', do you think you can call yourself 'Miss'? You still add 'Mister' rather than 'Mx' when monologuing for goodness' sake. the word you're looking for is 'delusional'. You're welcome."
The Experience
Here's a photo I have on file that rather proves the point I'm trying to make regarding fetish and dressing.
"Easily the sort of image that supports the concept of AGP, isn't it?"
In the end my understanding of myself is grounded in the sexual. I have related here extensively over the years that, yes, much of the dressing that I have done throughout my life has ended, or included, masturbation and bondage. Just imagining having longer hair, or hair like Trinity in the Matrix is enough to get me hot'n'bothered enough to get physical and reach the end; using the standard tissue to deal with the result and bin it. Just like it always has been. Maybe it always will be. "Don't you like that though," says that treacherous part of me inside with a soft voice, "you can admit that you bloody love having a good wank, can't you? That moment of climax. Not going to have that if you go on hormones, not going to be able to do that if you want to truly live as a trans-woman. And that, the wanking, is what this is really all about, isn't it?"
My only interaction with a sex-therapist was way back in late 2011 or early 2012. I wrote about it on this very blog. He asked me to explain what happened and what I thought about when I masturbated. It was a particularly unsubtle reference to AGP, something I was only dimly aware of myself at the time but keen to distance myself from. That is likely to come up again. And, honestly, I don't know how I don't fit that diagnosis - even if it is arrant nonsense, people believe it. And those people are gatekeepers to NHS and medical support. What if it is just a form of fetish - or, at least, enough of a fetish that it doesn't matter what else there is.
"You've lived the way you have for 40 years, struggled, but not moved. Would any change be worth the price paid?"
On Sunday my father's talk as we went for a walk revealed a man who had done much of what he wanted to do, and whose biggest regrets were in his own mind and not related to actual reality. He felt he had amends to make with me, and I never found out for what, because the concept is absurd. He kept a letter I wrote at the height of my teenage angst and impotent anger that insulted him and his wife for nearly twenty years before I managed to convince him to get rid of it. He read it every year on the anniversary of me sending it, torturing himself with the half-formed stress of a teenager who fancied himself good with words. A man who went to Oxford, found women to love him around every corner so that he could choose his partner; who out-performed his own father on every measurable metric.
By contrast... by contrast I was that teenage boy with the angst and self-important belief that I could wield words. I went to University, where two of my lecturers questioned whether or not I was degree material. At my Masters one of my two lecturers took me to task and pointed out that I was studying for an MA and would I not be better doing something, anything, else as I clearly wasn't cut out for this level of study and, frankly, he questioned how I managed to achieve a 2:1 in a BA (he suspected I didn't deserve the Hons addition). In teacher training one of the two course leads questioned whether I had what it took to be a teacher and the other said I could go through the motions but she felt I lacked the passion - like I was going through the motions without really knowing why. Imposter Syndrome but through inertia. "Why is your assertion that you're a trans-woman any different to your assertion that you wanted to go to University or be a teacher? Your body is male in every defineable way, your DNA screams male in every way science can judge and you code masculine so effectively that you avoid getting attacked and mugged by eyebrow alone. Even if you're not going through the motions, do you really think you would cope being seen socially as female?"
By the light of the street-lamp on the way out for milk last night, gone 2100 hrs, with an app to hide the stubble and smooth the forehead.
Tonight I go to the in-person support group. I shall play-act for one last time before a change in timings of the eldest's dance group for the new academic year render such escapades impossible for the next ten months. The sunshine of summer is more or less gone for now, it may return as I hear there's a heatwave, but for the last few days it has been warm and slightly muggy.
I have a date for one set of building work, a contractor for the second, and the shower and bathroom remain untouched except for my bodge job that seems to be holding for now. I have turned down my mother's offer of a holiday Oop North over the weekend as I had considered using that time to play-act a little more. Maybe get a hair-cut later today or tomorrow to try and turn my mop into something a little more ordered. Still too long to hide, too short to style, too feminine to really try for a masculine style.
Busy few days. I did nothing on the Tuesday but spent nearly all day doing it, taking the Boy to the game cafe. He lost every game. I managed to win one. KT's boy, new to the scene, won three out of four. Offered condescending advice to my Boy. He's younger, got an expensive deck. It grates a little. Because my Boy is better at this than I he has remained friends despite this, was not riled or upset, had a good time. The following day, yesterday, I took the family to the other city nearby - Tilly had a hospital appointment for her thyroid - and took them to a park that turned out better than I dared hope. Cue the smallest getting upset that we had to leave as quickly as we did and the eldest doing the same. Tilly has nodules, nothing to worry about according to the specialist, but they will check just in case. Tilly paid me £3 for the trouble.
Remember me I ask, remember me I sing.
Think of all the horrors I promise you that I bring.
That payment might be the saddest thing I've ever experienced. She did it on her phone, as I was driving, I couldn't stop her. But that payment means that I rank as less than a concerned friend. She wouldn't have paid, or offered to pay, any of her friends who took her down, nor any friend who babysat the children. Nor would any payment have been expected. Were I still at home, there would have been no payment (obviously). But she paid me. Later that same day I looked after the smallest - had done the same on Monday on short notice. It was late when she bade me bring him home, and he went without the usual screaming and anger. A good time out.
I couldn't say no to either short-notice request. Why wouldn't I take the time to have a good experience with my youngest child? Build a good memory for him. Of course the timings kept changing - I rushed tea then had to wait, ended up staying out with him until 2000 hrs. Too late to really relax in the evening as I had to run out to get milk. Tilly was taking the Boy to look at a cat they may adopt, it looks as though they will too - not the plan as originally told me, but I'm in no position to ask for nor receive regular updates.
Banged one out this morning whilst thinking about hair. Plaiting. Mine. Reflection: nothing has really changed, has it? I said it before here: I have all the time in world, beer and the internet.
- You stole the best years of my life - I'll give them back.
On the way out for free coffee in the sunshine earlier in the week.
At the game cafe Veronica related that someone she knew had 'come out' and was now living as a woman. Had been for a while, but only publically recently. The issue I spoke of last time had resolved - turned out that she had been in the right - and she had been in touch for her next gender clinic appointment. She asked if I had got in contact, encouraged me to come out to my Boy, reminded me that the community at the game cafe know and would be supportive. Reminded me that legal provisions make it clear that I can't be fired for coming out and that life is easier when you do - internally, not socially. What had I to lose? All of this was very positive, supportive.
Lily granted me access to their writing folder last night. As usual it's bloody good. All works in progress, nothing polished, but it has that spark that I like. Characterisation. Cleverly unreliable narrators (the fact that their personality changes the way metaphors and similies are used really hammers that home in the prose - not in speech but in the relation of the story, making perspective changes sing) that allow the story to leak out rather than be shoved in your face. Lily is a master at language and craft. Very like Servitor actually. I used to harbour dreams of writing this well.
Free coffee at Ikea is the plan. Then lunch. Hair-cut? I don't know. Bath; shave legs, chest and pits; choose what I shall wear for the evening. Tea. Go. Avoid the people leaving other groups that spied me and laughed last time - maybe not at me, but I hid anyway and still hit ladies leaving yoga on the way in. Burning with embarrassment. And why not? Chat. Ask no useful questions, pontificate on something like the little professor I am, alienate and erect those walls. Then home, bed, sleep.
If you have been, thank you for reading. I can't give you that time back.
Today, as it becomes clearer that I am drowning, Tilly suggested that I look into spending a couple of weeks away from home to catch up with work and get back on an even keel. It's tempting but financially impossible at present.
On Thursday, unbeknownst to Tilly, I went in and confessed the fact that I was drowning to a manager I trust. It is getting ridiculous. I can barely gasp for breath at the moment. I don't help, of course, in the fact that the more stressed and under pressure I get the more down-time and rest I need. Being sick this last weekend and having the family all sick has really taken it out of me. I have not had any time to work before 8 or 9pm since the snow-days. Staying at work doesn't help as people tend to use me as a sounding board. I am now telling my children that I can't play with them as I need to work on an almost daily basis.
I want to call bullshit. Girls and Boys on the ASD spectrum are generally the same. However, society expects girls to behave in ways that are a tad masculine more than it will allow boys to behave less masculine - ergo, ASD females will mask more effectively as they adapt to expectations. Males also adapt to expectations, to act out and to be harshly treated. Girls have it far worse, by the bye, but I call busllshit on the graphic, which perpetuates the situation where ASD is under-diagnosed in females.
Oh, and vocabulary. Sorry, but fuck you, graphic.
My ASD, now we know why, is the cause. No, other people don't find this sort of thing difficult. Tilly is not getting angry about the fact that I can barely function on what 'should' be done and then have to fill time with videos and just having 'time off'. Other people don't need to spend time on a lunchtime alone with youtube whilst at work, away from other people. Other people don't find trip-organising stress removes their ability to think in a straight line. Other people don't find that they can't plan more than a week ahead so that decorating destroys their ability to catch up with marking. Other people are able to function after helping a sick child in the night. Other people are able to work around dance shows. Other people get ill and recover so that they can keep up with work. Other people do things automatically and don't need to recover from doing the pots in a morning. Other people are, well, normal and get to enjoy conjugal relations with their partner because their partner wants to spend that sort of time and effort with them rather than feeling pressured so much that they can't be doing with it. Other people are able to be romantic, and most choose not to most of the time, but can turn it on when required and be guided by their partner. Other people do not have ASD.
Valid.
If I could find a reliable and painless method then I suspect I would indulge in the most selfish of all acts - suicide. Selfish because it solves nothing except for me, as I would be removed from the equation. Everyone else would suffer a bit, and possibly a lot, because I do the earning and the paying of the bills. My children would be very very broken by it because they use me as a support. My colleagues would be hugely hit because they would, in the short term, have to shoulder a lot more work and effort and, in the long term, deal with my replacement.
But, as Harry pointed out a few weeks ago, suicide would sort things out for me. And I would no longer care about the consequences.
I won't, of course. I am too logical, too driven by duty and addicted to being a martyr. I also have a healthy fear of pain and mistakes. Time is a great giver of opportunities to fix mistakes or at least let them dull into insignificance. Ergo, the longer I am alive the more chance I have of outrunning the stupidity I inflict daily. It may not be logically coherent, my ASD tells me it works. As a consequence, I shan't be ending things any time soon.
I learned to type on my grandmother's typewriter. I had long
assumed that this was the reason that my typing was so heavy,
loud and hard. However, coupled with my handwriting (the
"stabby pen of doom" style) it is likely that the real reason is,
of course, my ASD and lack of sensation.
Now we know why.
In the mists of time, before the now, I used to try my hand writing fiction. However, so much of what I tried to write was like, to quote people who read it, "reading a headache" so dense was the prose and so involved the thought. Not to mention the convoluted sentences. In that phrase that I suspect I shall be repeating enough for it to be my epitaph: "now we know why". Reading the work of people who can write (as opposed to just reading books by published authors) shows that there is a command of the art that stems from characters rather than plot, from knowing these people and making these characters relate-able.
I had characters, I used to have large numbers of them residing in my head and telling me how to write them. They were people, they had emotions and they functioned in the world but one of the biggest criticisms of my work was the lack of character. I always reasoned that I preferred to write plot but I did a tad despondent about being unable to crack what it was about my characters that people seemed to think was missing in my writing. So it was that I took another look at this fine piece of niche erotica on a whim, to try and confirm something that has been nagging at me since I found out for certain that I am ASD. Sure enough, it confirmed my analysis over the last few months: here we have a writer well in command of their craft. They take a subject, in this case a blind woman, and capture something of what it is to be a blind woman in the word choice - look at the descriptions of colour and style - and they do so in a way that I would wager that blind people would recognise. The emotion is felt, it radiates from the prose so that it can be seen rather than read an inwardly digested. No prizes for guessing that I am a visual thinker.
It's always the watch, isn't it? Rarely the person.
Read here long enough and you'll know I have a thing for
and theory about watches. How one can make judgements
based on the choice and style.
Now we know why.
Compare to the writing on my other blog or even further back on this one and you will see something. My characters are flat in affectation, they are driven by internal monologue, feeling, touch and a sense of logic. They are not real people. They are uncanny valley people - close enough to humans to lose the cute factor but not close enough to elicit sympathy and understanding. They are, like most characters conjured forth by writers, aspects of their creator separated only by degrees of research and understanding of others.
As an empath, I understand emotion. I know how it can be displayed and I can describe in detail the kind of body language that takes most people by surprise, but this is a laborious process and leads to the density of prose to make it more like reading a headache. What I cannot do is empathy. I cannot predict how emotions are connected nor how best to respond, so it is with my characters who feel without knowing exactly why or where it will go next. Hence the navel gazing and the monologuing as they look inward and try to ascertain what they are doing. The kind of useless inward analysis that I spend my life doing as I had always assumed that other people did as well. Now we know why.
Stout or ruby ale?
Don't care. I want her eyes.
When an idea strikes, like utilising this dice dare on faproulette and augmenting it with one of the earliest fantasies on this blog here to turn it into some sort of short fiction, I get excited and start planning in my head. But I do not write it. I cannot write it. I lack the ability to communicate what it is about the situation and the characters that make them so real in my own mind. That I cannot bring forth in my words or my prose. I can't even do that in real life with my own emotions and real-ness, so being unable to do it in fiction with not-real characters is unsurprising. It's why the coping strategy had to die, it no longer serves the purpose of coping, it is yet another source of alienation and distance.
Solace can be taken in beer. It often is.
This pack is my favourite.
The chinchilla's teeth are too long. It could be fatal. Again. Cue Tilly getting emotional and crying a bit. My daughter, broken and bruised by misunderstandings and distant from inattention from me, barely able to cope with the thought that there might be something wrong with our beloved pet. Of course, I find myself dispassionately weighing the options and, like last time, coming to the conclusion that it may even be better if his life were snuffed out - humanely and professionally - and that makes me something of a monster.
I haven't worn boxers, except for twice, since Christmas. It has been nice. The boxers I wore yesterday were crap compared to my now normal underwear and, frankly, I see no reason not to wear knickers all the time. Not even the apparent correlation between boxers and attention from Tilly. It's almost impossible to imagine us resuming carnal relations and, to be honest, I can't actually imagine me getting what I need from sex with anyone else. I think my porn addiction, and it is kind of that, has finally robbed me of the ability to physically react to other human beings in an immediate sense. Eventually, Tilly will have the emotional energy and eventually I shall convince her to find what I cannot provide with someone who can. There is every reason to expect that she will stay in the house and will hang around - companionship will be maintained - but it is time for me to prepare to give up hope for anything more for myself.
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